Coming Home
by Peridot-chan
Summary: [Oneshot][RC] After a year's abscence, how will Rath be accepted at the castle by the ones he loves most? (title subject to change)


Ok. This story is dedicated to aquajogger, for always reviewing and whom I always forget to review, Lady Dragonainne because she asked me to write more RxC, and Lady Kilgorin, because she thinks I can't catch her. XP

**Disclaimer: Do I really have to write this? You should know by now. So I won't even say it.**

**Coming Home**

_A Dragon Knights One-Shot_

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It had been so long since he had been home.

Now, as he finally stood on the threshold of all that was familiar and yet so much like a memory that he struggled to convince himself that he was in reality back and was standing in front of these great stone doors after such an extended amount of time, he found himself curiously tentative to cross through the doorway. He and his traveling companions had been absent from everyone's lives and daily routines so long that he feared himself forgotten.

As soon as the thought entered his mind, he dismissed it guiltily. He knew full well that she had promised to always be there for him. But the question that plagued him so incessantly was why it was that he was willing to take her at her word. She had broken the same vow once before by leaving him behind to go with the Demon Lord; what incentive was there to convince her not to take a similar course of action a second time?

'But she did it for you, not to hurt you,' A small voice suggested from the dank crevices of his mind where it had been forced back into ages ago. Stupid Logic.

He didn't take anyone else's word for truth; why hers?

'That's an easy one. You trust her,' Mentally he wedged Logic further into the small nook over which it now presided. He countered with the fact that he had failed to be present in her life for over a year now. People moved on. So did Dragons, even Youkai.

Logic made no effort to reply. He felt his heart drop beneath his stomach. He allowed his thoughts to continue to wander. A lot could happen in a year. What if she had completely forgotten about him, found someone new? Someone who could be there for her? Someone who wasn't afraid to show affection as he had been and would probably always be? She was half-youkai, he was half-youkai. He shouldn't trust her any more than he trusted himself.

'You shouldn't trust her, you're right. But you do. You know she's waiting on you.' Hope had found an argument and voice to put forth for its cause. Resigning himself to lay full faith on the voice of Hope, he grasped the iron knocker with his left hand. As he did, he noted the beautiful craftsmanship of it. A simple iron ring suspended from an intricate cast of the Light Dragon's head. Above it, a centuries-old inscription was chiseled into the stone, made permanent by time. It was written in a language long forgotten by the tongues of Dragons, Demons, and Elvin folk alike. He imagined that when the mighty castle's days had numbered fewer, all knew the meaning of these characters that now seemed foreign, but their translation had been lost in time. Things were easily lost in time, he mused. Memories, translations, ideas, faces, names... And then time itself was easily lost. Once wasted, you could never get it back. In some perverse way, time could even be as easily lost in itself.

He was abruptly snapped out of his reverie when the great stone doors suddenly began to swing open. As soon as the gap between the two doors was enough to allow a human form passage, a black-haired Dragon Fighter bolted from between them as if escaping from jail and darted right past the three knights. He continued in his rush for a few moments, did a perfect double-take, and hurried back to meet with the trio, a relieved (albeit slightly disappointed in light of missing out on an escape) countenance displayed openly.

As the Dragon Fighter neared the travelers, his face broke out into a full-fledged grin.

"You made it! You're really back! We've all been worried sick about you guys. Thatz, Kitchel's locked herself in her room and won't even come out to go treasure hunting! She and Cesia wanted to go after you three, but we just couldn't let them. And Cesia... Rath, you really should go see her. She's a mess-"

Rath, Thatz, and Rune stared blankly at this bold Dragon Fighter. Rune, they could tell, was internally debating whether or not to chasten the subordinate for impertinence when something almost audibly clicked in his head. "M... My Lord?" He asked, unsure.

"Yes? ...Oh! Sorry, I forgot." At this, the Dragon Fighter reached up to grasp a handful of his black hair and tugged gently on it, immediately letting it fall to the ground, revealing bright golden locks. Rune sighed and pressed a finger to his temple.

"You were sneaking out again, weren't you, Milord?"

Lykouleon grinned sheepishly. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" Reluctantly, Rune shook his head. "Good!"

Rath, however, hadn't heard a word past 'Cesia.' His mind cut off the reception of all sounds in order to focus more intensely on one goal as he strode purposefully through the still-open doorway. As he neared the end of the hallway, however, his speed diminished noticeably and an expression of confusion and bewilderment replaced the determined countenance held by him only moments ago.

He waited until he heard footsteps approach him from behind. "What's wrong?" Thatz's voice echoed throughout the empty corridor.

"I... I'm... I'm lost. I can't remember where anything is anymore." And he had never felt so lost. This was his home; the place where he grew up, the place he knew best. Yet now he felt like a guest, a stranger in these halls. Soon, he heard Lykouleon chuckling as he approached.

"Your room is down the corridor to your right, up one flight of stairs, second door on the left. I think, once you are there, you'll remember where everything else is." He answered the implied question with one of the warm smiles that irked Rath so much.

Giving Lykouleon the expected retributive glare, he headed down the indicated hallway, up the appropriate stairway, and left the aforesaid number of doors. He placed his hand on the doorknob, as if to turn it and push the door open, but stopped abruptly. He was suddenly and inexplicably apprehensive about what he might find on the other side of the door. He quickly dismissed the apparently foolish emotion. This was his room, he would find nothing but his things on the other side, possibly arranged a little differently, possibly neater than the way it had been deserted so swiftly.

So slowly and cautiously, he pushed the door ajar. He peered inside before fully allowing the door to open all the way and found his room in complete disorder- The exact state it had been left in directly before the unexpected departure.

It felt so natural to return to his quarters exactly as he had left them that for a moment, he had never left. He would fall asleep on his feather bed and wake up tomorrow to find that Cernozura had already prepared a large breakfast for which he was late. Lord Lykouleon and Queen Raseleane would occupy their usual seats at the head of the table, Thatz would bury himself in a mountain of food and argue with Cernozura about getting fifths and that if the others weren't there yet it was their fault. Rune would be yelling at the top of his voice about disrespect and impudence while Tetheus would look on silently. Ruwalk would be calmly conversing with the Lord or the Dragon Fighters, all of whom would be completely ignoring the utter chaos surrounding them. Utter Chaos, that's what it was. That was how he wanted things. When things were always so hectic, it was simple for him to slip into reflections and brood on his own problems. It would also be an amateur task to slip out undetected and allow himself some time to go on his demon hunts that he worked so hard to pretend to enjoy. And in a way, he did.

'But that doesn't matter.' He tried hard to suppress the voice in his head that uttered this hideous truth. 'It doesn't matter because nothing is like that anymore. Nothing is the same.' Despondency, the hideous, spiteful fiend that spoke the offending words, delighted always in the melancholy and despondency of others and only allowed him a few precious moments in his complacent disillusionment. It thrust its grotesque head in his face, harshly screaming the words that dissolved his dream. It's voice was like ice in the midst of the illusionary warmth. It told him, warned him, convinced him that she had moved on. He would be the furthest thing from her mind after a year's separation and to confront her would be worse than useless.

But now his head was pounding with the raging feud between Despondency and Hope. While Despondency maintained it's steadfast opinion that he was a memory and nothing more, Hope argued that if he thought of her, she might also be thinking of him. As he struggled to force Despondency out of at least his conscious mind and possibly as far back as Logic, a voice spoke from behind him.

"Rath?" Forgetting all dignity upon being startled so, his feet left the floor a few inches below and his throat emitted a high-pitched scream without his consent. "Uh... Are you feeling okay?"

He turned to meet the gaze of his blonde companion. "Don't... EVER... do that again!" Anger was an easy outlet for frustration. So easy to take advantage of was it that oftentimes he had to check himself for becoming angry as a result of the emotional turmoil that was so apparent to everyone, yet that he was still unwilling to admit the existence of- not soberly, at least.

And so he made a conscious effort to take the volume and edge from his voice as he next commented, "I was just..."

But he was interrupted before he could finish his thought. "You know the Lord said you should go and see Cesia. At least let her know that you're back. She had to have been really worried about you to want to go after you herself."

Rath didn't need to be told twice. Quickly he turned- partially out of the eagerness he was loathe to show, partially to hide the blush that had crept upon his cheeks unexpectedly and quite un-welcomed- but as he did so, he noted the slight hint of envy on the former faerie's delicate features and felt pity for him. Cesia was always there for him, Kitchel was at the castle for Thatz (no matter how much they denied any affection for each other), but Tintlet was so far away in Faerie Forest and weeks often went by before they could even speak to each other.

But the moment of pity was fleeting; she now dominated his thoughts. He strode purposefully up the stairs with one goal in mind.

Mentally he recognized that Lykouleon had been correct concerning two of his assumptions. And only mentally. He remembered the layout of the castle now, and it was necessary that he go see Cesia. However, Lykouleon had only been partially correct about the latter inasmuch as he had assumed that a visit would be for Cesia's benefit, when in truth he would be attending to his own needs. His head felt as if it were being pounded constantly from the inside and every moment he thought it might explode from the forceful application of illusionary but all-too-real pressure.

Fortunately, the cruel fates relented slightly and allowed the pain to secede as he drew nearer his destination. Once realized, this fact was the cause of the crescendo in the rate of his approach.

Then he was there.

The door, identical to his own, loomed dauntingly in his face. Without consent, one hand rose to rest softly upon the polished wood. Slowly, it traced its way upward along the decorative engravings, until it reached the iron knocker made in similar fashion to the one perched on the great entrance doors and identical to the all the ones adhered to other doors up and down the marble-floored hallway. The hand recoiled as if lashed out at upon contact with the molded metal. Here, her presence was so strong that the sensation transferred at contact was enough to completely dissolve his headache. His first instinct that had been acted upon had been to release it quickly because of the sudden change, but further consultation with neglected Logic resulted in the resolution to keep fast and firm his grip, for this change was for the better.

But now he paused again, the recurring and illogical apprehension having gripped him as tightly as he held to the iron ring. Despondency snapped at him to get over himself and open the door so that he could see how happy she was without him, while Logic persisted that there was a subconscious reason for his hesitation. Hope continued to institute that she would still be there, waiting for him, that she had kept her promise, until he couldn't bear it anymore and relocated Hope to the vicinity of Logic's residence.

Then the apprehension, the tension, the hesitation, all vanished just as suddenly and inexplicably as it had come upon him. He knocked confidently upon the heavy wooden door. Impatience served to lengthen the short amount of time that he stood there waiting to full hours before any sort of activity on the other side of the door became audible. Staccato footsteps resounded in the room beyond his sight and of a sudden his apprehension engulfed him in a wave whose current was easily more turbulent than any previous onslaught of fear.

The echo slowed to a halt half a moment after its source.

"Who is it?"

That was it. That simple phrase was all it took; three common words and all intelligent thought fled his mind. All that he could recognize floating through his thoughts was 'It's her. Her voice...' It tumbled through his mind and bounced against the walls of his head, refusing to permit the intrusion of Logic, Hope, or Despondency. Instead, he shut them all three out of his conscious completely, allowing the musical sound of her voice to fill every corner of his vacant mind. He was ashamed to admit it, even to himself, but he had forgotten what her voice sounded like. He remembered and clung to her words, her precious words, often his only source of purpose, but her voice had simply slipped through his fingers. Words were easy to remember, for those he could mimic, but her voice he could not forge. It was completely unique to her, and it was something that he always wanted to keep stored within the confines of his waking thoughts.

She herself was something he never wanted to lose again. A year of separation had provided plentiful time to reflect upon and come to terms with that fact. He needed her and there was no way physically, emotionally, or mentally, he or anyone else could change that.

'Answer her!'

'Of course she'll remember you!'

'Get it over with.'

Logic, Hope, and Despondency made clear their own opinions and ideas at the same time as they leaked back into his subconscious. So, following the advice of all three mentalities as they finally agreed on one course of action, he made an effort to reply.

"...It's... it's me..." He called lamely, while mentally beating himself for not supplying a more informational answer. In truth, however, he was quite unable to supply a sufficient answer. What was his name, again? Oh well... It didn't matter now because she was here. He could hear her voice. It was the single sweetest, most calming sound he could ever remember hearing for the entirety of his waking life.

The sound of the door squeaking on its long un-oiled hinges gave him a shocking jolt that sent him plummeting down out of the sky of his ecstatic reverie towards the cold, thorn-infested surface of reality. He stood static and rigid, emotion and energy coursing through his taut body. Hope encouraged him, Despondency daunted him, and Logic offered kind words, alternate solutions, and a cushioned landing should he be rejected as painfully as Despondency suggested.

And there she stood. Her face was pale, streaked red and wet, and from what was obvious to him, she had been crying for hours. Her eyes were red and swollen, ringed with dark circles whose tale told of sleepless nights and tiring days. Her usually vibrant expression was replaced with a sort of cold emotion that he painfully recognized as one he often adopted as his own- hopelessness. Her cheeks were hollow, her lips chapped, and a few pounds were missing from her already slim frame. He noticed that she leaned heavily against the door frame. Her legs shook and she looked as if she could collapse at any moment.

She was beautiful.

"...Rath?" Her voice was nothing more than a whisper. Neither of them dared to breathe for an extended moment. The castle around them, stone walls, furniture, tapestries, marble floors, seemed to dissolve like a phantasmagoric dream, leaving them floating alone in nothingness, hopelessness, solitude. It left them alone, together.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. She abandoned all forms of reserve and flung herself upon him, silently resolving to never release him again lest some cruel hand sweep him out of her grasp once more.

He found himself unable to respond. His emotionally tortured mind was proven inadequate to conceive the full intensity of the situation caused by her touch. Pain and discomfort fled, replaced by warmth, acceptance, and one other emotion which he vaguely remembered from his childhood years but could not place. Timidly, he returned the embrace. In doing so, he felt her body begin to shake violently against his. He was startled when he felt his tunic wax damp where her face rested against it.

Attempting to comfort her, he tightened his grip, but she pulled away. He would never quite understand women, especially her. She was upset and he was trying to help, but she rejected him. He readily admitted that this role was new to him, the role of the comforter, but he was willing at least to try. But if she didn't want him too...

Pleadingly, her eyes met his. "Oh gods... Rath- please... Please tell me it's not another dream. Tell me... tell me you're really here. I don't want to wake up."

"Shhhhh... I'm here, I promise." He whispered into her ear. He was relieved as she settled back into his embrace, and he realized that he recognized the inidentified emotion. But his emotions didn't matter as he held the sobbing girl to his chest.

"I promise..."


End file.
